Mrs. Bollington-Watts turned aside to talk vigorously
to a passer-by. Lady Elisabeth laid her hand
upon his arm.

“Mr. Maraton,” she said softly, “do
make up your mind. Please come to Lyndwood.”

Her blue eyes were raised to his, fearlessly, appealingly.
Maraton was more than ever conscious of the delicate
perfection of her person, her clear skin, her silky
brown hair. She was something new to him in her
sex. He knew quite well that a request from her
was an unusual thing.

“I will come, Lady Elisabeth,” he promised
gravely. “Beyond that, of course, I can
say nothing. But I will come to Lyndwood.”

The slight anxiety passed from her face like a cloud.
Her smile was positively brilliant.

“It is charming of you,” she whispered.

Mrs. Bollington-Watts was once more free and by their
side. They moved on to the corner and Maraton
was on the point of taking his leave. Just at
that moment Mrs. Bollington-Watts gave a little cry
of amazement. A coach was drawn up by the side
of the path, and a young man who was driving it, was
looking down at them. Mrs. Bollington-Watts stopped
and waved her hand at him almost frantically.

“Why, it’s Freddy Lawes!” she exclaimed..
“Why, Freddy, what on earth are you doing here?
If this isn’t a surprise! They told me you
never moved from Paris, and I thought I’d have
to come right over there to see you. . . . Well,
I declare! Freddy!—­why, Freddy, what’s
the matter?”

The words of Mrs. Bollington-Watts seemed as though
they had been spoken into empty air. The young
man was leaning forward in his place, the reins loosely
held in his hand, and a groom was already upon the
path, recovering the whip which had slipped from his
fingers. His eyes were fixed not upon Mrs. Bollington-Watts
nor upon Lady Elisabeth, but upon Maraton. He
was a young man of harmless and commonplace appearance
but his features were at that moment transformed.
His mouth was strained and quivering, his eyes were
lit with something very much like horror. Some
words certainly left his lips, but they did not carry
to the hearing of any one of those three people.
He looked at Maraton with the fierce, terrified intentness
of one who looks upon a spectre!

CHAPTER VII

Mrs. Bollington-Watts’ shrill voice once more
broke the silence, which, although it was a matter
of seconds only, was not without a certain peculiar
dramatic quality.

“Say, what’s wrong with you, Freddy?
You don’t think I’m a ghost, do you?
Can’t you come down and talk?”